A Picture of Stiles Stilinski
by dylanssourwolf
Summary: Derek has a list of classic novels he's ever-so-slowly trying to read and he tells himself that's the only reason he keeps showing up at Novel Idea Books. The only thing is, the owner, Stiles, has a bad habit of letting the endings slip. He thinks he has a book Stiles has yet to read, but when his plan backfires, Derek finds himself wanting Stiles to spoil it.


The Picture of Stiles Stilinski

Derek loves books. His favorite place to hang out was the New York Public Library, brushing his fingers over the spines as he wandered along the stacks, but since he's moved back home to Northern California to be with his sister, his new favorite nook to read in is the shop downtown, Novel Idea Books. It's small, quaint, independently-owned, with bookshelves made by local artisans and plush bean bag chairs in corners and crannies, with plants from the farmer's market filtering the air and creaky driftwood flooring that never fails to give away lurking patrons. It's homey and inviting with a brick fireplace across from the register that always has a fire in it, especially now, in chilly December. It smells like vanilla and cedar and aged, yellowed parchment from the few donated books that are centuries old, earthy and smoky from the volatile organic compounds breaking down in the woody pages, almondy and chocolatey from the constant pot of coffee brewing behind the front desk.

Derek also loves the boy that owns Novel Idea, tall and lanky and not a day above twenty-two. He's got this smooth, tanned skin and tawny brown hair that compliments a set of eyes like bourbon and lips like pillows, with a soft smile that lights up the room brighter than the string of incandescents hung along the top border of the building's interior.

The first book Derek quips from the store is _The Catcher and the Rye._ Rebellious, fairly short, the first of a long list of classics that Derek hasn't yet had the pleasure of cracking open, and Derek being who he is, has to find the oldest copy the store has. He loves to stick his nose in the spine and inhale deeply, and it leads him to the register with a burn of excitement bubbling in his lower belly.

The owner doesn't bother to look up from his novel at the embarrassed book nerd, who's resisting the excited jitters he has, ready to claw his way through the quintessential JD Salinger. Ironically, he's halfway through _The Picture of Dorian Gray,_ which seems to suit the boy damn near perfectly. In a well-worn white button down under a brown cardigan with the sleeves rolled up, he has the most immaculate complexion Derek has ever seen, silky and littered with freckles, and he glances up for a moment and stares _through_ Derek with those doe-like eyes that still seem to take up half of his face, even from their place behind those thick-framed glasses. A spark of curiosity flickers in them a moment before they scan the counter for the merchandise. "Ooh, The Catcher and the Rye_," _he says with a fond look at the tattered cover._ "_Punk ass teen complaints a lot. Decent choice, three and a half of five stars." He rings up the book and Derek pays all of five dollars for the well-loved copy and as he's leaving, the owner notes, "He has a red hat, too."

And then, Derek goes back to work—as a marketing specialist at a publishing company, he wants to get acquainted with some popular classics—and he spends the rest of the day distracted by the two-hundred and seventy-seven crimson-covered pages burning a hole in the pocket of his leather jacket. He finishes setting up a marketing outline for some new werewolf hunting fantasy series and then speeds home in half the time it normally takes him.

Derek finishes the book in approximately four hours and twenty-one minutes, and he does so over a bowl of popcorn and a beer that he seems to wean off of every time Holden Caulfield spends money on booze. It's overall a decent book, like the owner of the shop had said, and he can't help but feel slightly unsatisfied. Was it the spoiler? He's never really had any issue before finding out the juicy parts of books and movies before he's seen them, and the unresolved feeling in his gut can really only be chocked up to the fact that he'd been so looking forward to this little stress-relieving treat that was ruined via a single sentence muttered to him at the checkout line by the one person that's making him inexplicably nervous. The bookstore guy was right. The novel _was_ a dumpster fire of complaints from a punk-ass teen in a red hat. Derek figures his next book should be a little more of an obscure read, for the sake of his sanity.

The next day, Derek finds a borderline ancient copy of Homer's _Odyssey_ with both the original poetic Greek and an English translation in the top shelves of the epics section of the bookstore. The cover is worn and shredded, bound in a dark leather, with the interior pages scratched with notes and annotations. The one class he took in college about ancient languages is proving useful, because it helps him translate the faded title on the cover, and Derek can't help but warrant this as an impressive find on his part—because clearly _everyone_ is fighting to get their hands on a copy of the second-oldest extant work of Western literature. There's a price tag on the spine that reads thirty-five dollars in a scratchy scrawl, and Derek slowly creaks his way back through the stacks to find the boy from the previous day back behind the counter with a copy of _Fahrenheit 451._

"You're back," he says, dog-earing the page with nimble fingers, "Now you're scoring a copy of—" he takes the book from Derek and brushes his hand over the dusty Greek on the cover. "my boy, Homer. Another classic. It's a pretty easy read if you're into ancient speech patterns and dactylic hexameter."

Derek hands over the cash for the book as the owner peels the price sticker off of the spine. "Yeah."

"Odysseus is so much better than Achilles. War veteran takes forever to get home and then kills everyone. Can't go wrong." He hands Derek the book back and takes the bills. "Enjoy."

Naturally, Derek is displeased when it's four in the morning and Odysseus seems to slip out of every unfortunate circumstance he manages to thrust himself into, shows up back at home just to _slaughter_ the suitors, and then everyone fucking _gives up_ the vendetta that started the entire book in the first place. The boy in the book shop was right, _yet again_, and now Derek's just wasted six and a half hours reading a book that he already knew the ending of.

He tries not to look angry when he shows up to Novel Idea for the third day in a row, because honestly, he's trying to go through his list of unread classics as a _treat-yo-self_ sort of deal, and as remarkably stunning as bookstore guy is, Derek's still a _little_ pissed that he's ruining the story line before Derek even gets a chance to fucking _open_ the book. On the other hand, he doesn't want to tell the guy _not_ to mention spoilers because he _really_ likes it when they have a conversation, no matter how short it may be.

Naturally, he browses the stacks languidly, and bookstore guy finds him this time thumbing through some editions while he's shelving books. "You know we have a whole section on popular classics, right?" And Derek just stares at him with _War and Peace_ firmly in his grasp as if it's the only thing preventing this interaction from being a dream. "Honestly, Tolstoy's not my favorite. _Especially_ not that one." He turns back around and re-shelves some autobiographical novels before he looks at Derek again through thick frames. "Everyone is sad. It snows. A total waste of thirty plus hours of your time."

Yet another book ruined.

Derek puts it back, defeated, and the kid's wearing a nametag this time. _Stiles,_ as it were, follows Derek to the classics section and mindlessly talks about the old lady that donated all of her late husband's old antiquarian novels with the gilded pages, and Derek finds _Moby Dick_ fitting the same antiquarian description. As soon as he opens the cover, he hears, "Man versus whale. The whale wins."

He puts it back and attempts to hide the next one he picks up.

"I recommend it if you can read Spanish." Derek jumps a little at the voice over his shoulder, because _how does he do that?_ _Don Quixote_ isn't on his list, but he can put it on there to replace the last two he's decided against. He opens his mouth to speak and Stiles points at the cover of the edition Derek's holding. "Guy attacks windmills. Also, he's mad."

"Can you maybe _not_ ruin the plotline?" He blurts it out a little harsher than he expected to, and Derek immediately recoils at the sound of his own voice in the quiet store. Stiles's expression goes from neutral, to pained, to frantic in a matter of seconds.

"Shit, I'm s—crap—fuck—sorry, I—_wow_, I can't speak."

Derek's brows raise at the guy, absolutely tongue-tied and apologetic, sputtering out fragments of a sentence before he can grasp his own thoughts. "You've spoiled every book I've bought this week," Derek starts, a little irritated, "I'm working through a list."

Stiles offers a small, awkward smile and _Jesus_, now Derek's trying not to feel like a dick because the kid walks over to the box of books he's re-shelving a little defeated. "I—yeah, sorry. I get excited about literature. I'll go back to my, uh," he waves his hands in the air and digs back through the box, "job. The working thing. I'll just do that." His lean fingers tug a bundle from the box and he surveys the stacks before finding the most suitable place for them. A glimmer of golden pages catches Derek's eye and before he can stop himself, he's reaching out to grab Stiles's wrist before he puts the novel on its designated shelf.

"Give me that one."

"Wuthering Heights?" Stiles is examining it like he's surprised. "Seriously?"

It's number four on Derek list, right underneath Crime and Punishment, but he's not quite in the mood for Dostoyevsky yet, so Emily Brontë will have to do for now. "Yes, it's on my list."

Derek's eyes follow where Stiles is skimming the pages to check over the condition of the book before he pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose and takes it to the front of the store. The dark floors groan under the shifting weight of Derek trailing the boy through the dimly lit shelves, and he stops at something glinting in the 'Pop Culture' section, immediately losing Stiles in the dinky labyrinth of a bookstore. The shimmer continues when Derek tugs the book out from its shelf and it's a box set of the Lord of the Rings trilogy that Derek makes a mental note to add onto his classics list.

"Where'd you go?" It's Stiles, coming from somewhere to his left. "This shop is the size of a fucking peanut, how did you get lost?"

He tries desperately put the book back from where he'd found it as quickly as possible because he doesn't need Stiles blabbering about the plotline of the entirety of Lord of the Rings before he has a chance to read them, let alone watch the movie, and he manages to get the box set back on the shelf, but in his haste, knocks two hardcovers to the floor. Stiles peeks through the empty slot in the stacks and sighs, "The book is ten dollars, and you don't have to be embarrassed about Lord of the Rings, just leave the Mitch Rapp series out of it, yeah?" He pushes the two hardcovers back into the shelf and loops around to guide a grumpy Derek back to the front of the store.

Derek's fingers reach for his wallet as they weave around tables and bookshelves and his gaze nonchalantly travels from the morphing shoulder blades sharp underneath the brown cardigan that really would be ugly on _anyone_ else, down to the stone wash jeans that found a way to perfectly stretch over the kid's pert ass. He's mumbling something about the lack of appreciation for how brilliantly the store is laid out and Derek can't seem to take his eyes off of Stiles's butt, until the boy stops walking and turns around to say something and oh _god_, did he catch him staring? Derek's eyes hit the floor and he crouches down to tie his shoe that looks like it's about to fall out, and when he feels his face return to its normal color, he stands again to face Stiles, whose mouth is slanted in a crooked simper.

"Ten bucks and Wuthering Heights is yours."

Derek tugs his wallet out of his back pocket and fishes a ten from it, sliding it across the counter in exchange for the book.

"See you tomorrow, Heathcliff."

Derek doesn't understand the reference yet and just leaves with a lingering glance over Stiles's perfect lips before he's out the door and walking in the direction of a coffee shop to grab a latte before he has to go back to work and sift through another manuscript.

He gets home around six that night and opts to eat whatever leftover stir-fry he's got ready to heat up, all the while swinging his legs on the edge of the counter where he's seated, skimming over the opening pages of his novel to the faint whirring of the microwave. He zips through the novel and when he looks at the clock again, it's nearly midnight, and he's got two pages left before he's done, and a small post-it flutters out from beneath the back dust cover. It's scratchy scrawl, and it just reads:

A sort-of brother and sister fall in love. It's foggy.

_Stiles._ Derek grumbles because he's right. Does Heathcliff ever get adopted by Mr. Earnshaw? The fact that he didn't automatically inherit Wuthering Heights when Hindley died suggests not, but he's not sure, and his brain has half a mind to ask Stiles his thoughts when he shows up to the store on his day off. Derek also thinks about their interaction earlier, because he is _so_ not Heathcliff. So, _maybe_ he's let his passions destroy both him and those around him from time to time, and _maybe_ he's a somewhat bitter and haunted individual—it tends to happen when your whole family burned to death—but there's no way he's malicious and cruel to _everyone_ _all_ the time…but he didn't do anything to warrant such an accusation from some guy he just met in a bookstore.

"Ah, you're back," Stiles chimes from somewhere in the back of the store when Derek enters. His jade eyes scan the entryway and Stiles is nowhere to be found, the only thing signaling his presence is the disembodied voice ringing from between the stacks. "I'm back here. Literally walk straight back."

Derek does, still irritated, worming through the maze of furniture until he finds Stiles, sitting on a small tier of wooden bleachers in a reading nook, in a navy beanie and matching jacket, with a soft sage v-neck underneath. He's playing on his phone and cranes his head to stare at Derek with a smirk, curiosity glinting behind his thick frames. "Stiles," Derek mumbles, casting his eyes down to the converse of the boy's feet instead of gazing too long into the swirling pools of honey.

"Hey, Heathcliff, what's on the list for today?"

Truthfully, _he_ doesn't even know. "How'd you know it was me?" Derek doesn't understand how Stiles could've known he'd come in from the opposite end of the bookstore.

"There's an old bell on the outside of the store," Stiles starts, eyeing the collarbones peeking over the top of Derek's Henley. "You're the only one who throws the door open wide enough to ring it."

_Shit,_ now he's blushing unintentionally, and Derek doesn't know why he all of a sudden can't control his own embarrassment from this guy, and he's squirming a little underneath the heat of Stiles's gaze, moving up and down his body where he hasn't yet moved from the top of the stairs. "Whatever."

Stiles puts his phone in his pocket and stands, staring up at Derek's godlike frame from the bottom of the bleachers. "Why are you angrily storming in here today?"

"I need a new book," he answers quickly, looking around the reading space. There are beanbags littered along the floor around the open floor area at the foot of the bleachers with a stack of blankets in the corner and a map rug for kids to play on. "And I'm not Heathcliff."

Stiles ascends the stairs with a smile and amusement playing in his brown eyes. "First of all, you absolutely are. Second, I've got one picked out. Several actually. You'll be done with your list and then some in a few weeks if you keep zipping through these books like fucking Speed Racer." He pushes past Derek to get up the stairs and bumps his shoulder with no apology, and it sends tingles down Derek's arm. _Stop,_ he thinks. _This kid is annoying._ But he likes it, and he doesn't know why, because if it were anyone else, Derek probably would've strangled them by now.

"How do you know what's on my list?"

"I'm guessing," replies Stiles, "I've read all the classics. There isn't a book in this store that I haven't read cover to cover."

Now Derek has a challenge. "What book am I reading tonight?"

"Jesus, you ask a lot of questions." Stiles ducks behind the register and gives Derek a sickening glimpse of his ass, before he pops up with a worn purple spine in his hands. "You're reading one of my favorites, To Kill A Mockingbird. No charge, it's my copy. Keep it."

He hands the book over with sincerity and Derek hesitates to take it. Is this a test? "You're sure?"

Stiles nods. "I have a copy of each different cover design. My mom gave me this one when I was young, and now I'm giving it to you. Y'know, spreading the knowledge and all that gooey shit. You're one of the good ones who enjoys good literature, so appreciate it."

"Thanks," Derek replies, turning over the old novel in his hands, the yellowed pages and broken spine giving off the rich, earthy aroma Derek loves so much.

Stiles reaches under the counter again and pulls out another book, this one a new hardcover, a luster dust cover vibrant with the colors of a new release. "If you're interested, after you're done with your list, I'll let you borrow the sequel. I'm in the middle of it right now," and his nimble fingers crack Go Set A Watchman open to the center pages.

Derek turns to leave, but stops and asks, "How am I Heathcliff?" It's been nagging at him and he _needs _answers.

Stiles looks up from the book with a smirk tugging over those supple lips and finds his way to the cushion in the window next to the register. Derek's jade eyes follow his movements closely, and the boy doesn't at all seem fazed by the glare at all. "First of all, you never told me your name, so I've been calling you Heathcliff behind your back. And second, y—"

_Shit._ "Derek," he interrupts, My name's Derek."

"Well, _Heathcliff_," Stiles continues, "you're complicated, mesmerizing, consumable. Something about you is bizarre and I can't place it, but you feel like a hero trying really hard to be a villain. Now, get out of my bookstore." Derek's eyes narrow but he listens nevertheless and leaves the store with his brow sunken low over his interested eyes. He drives home and curls up on the couch, like he does every Saturday, and sticks his nose into the new book with the intention of getting a new one tomorrow, and a small plan hatching in the back of his mind to find a book Stiles has yet to read.

Derek shows up every single day during his lunch break for a new book, and he's started collecting the post-its Stiles leaves in the back of each one. He's got extremely abridged versions of each classic taped on the inside of the front cover of their respective novels and they're all filling up his bookshelf nicely. He's annoyed by how well Stiles has chosen the books, because each one _is_ on his list, and he's taken to writing Stiles's summary next to each title for future reference. He's filled in alongside To Kill A Mockingbird '_Kids don't understand racism. Adults don't either._', Animal Farm '_Four legs good. Two legs bad. Then four legs bad._', and The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe '_A lion eats a witch in a closet. Some kids watch. The lion is Jesus._' and at least twenty other books.

He's sure by the boy's Heathcliff comment that Stiles is into him—as if the extremely abridged summaries didn't tell him that—and it thrills him to think about, because all he wants is to feel those hands running over his body the way he runs them over leather-bound spines and _wow,_ Derek's gotta stop imagining that in public.

He's conjured up the perfect plan to get Stiles to make a move, and luckily in the past month or so, it seems the boy is running out of novels to give Derek. He's planning on eventually making a new list of cult favorites rather than standard classics, which in turn should open a new realm of possibilities for Stiles to bombard him with literature, but as of the moment, Derek's three pages away from finishing his iridescent box set of middle-earth's epic jewelry return policy, also known as the last book on his list.

When he shows up to Novel Idea around five the next day, Derek makes sure to triple check his appearance before swinging the door open to ring the bell. He's in a soft gray Henley and dark wash jeans superbly fitted to his sculpted legs, an outfit so casual, yet absolutely formatted to gauge the most favored response from Stiles—Derek has certainly paid attention to the unconscious responses of physical attraction from the boy every time he comes into the shop and the dumb gray Henley had Stiles's eyes flickering down to his collarbone an obscene amount in the shortest period of time.

He doesn't immediately emerge from the depths of the store, but Derek hears an ethereal voice say, "I'm looking for a book for you right now," from somewhere in the Horror section. "I know I've ruined Dickens and Stephen King, but honestly, I think The Shining is a really great read and I'm seriously considering pulling it for you."

Derek remains silent, stepping around the creakiest parts of the floor that he's come to know so well. He searches the Religion shelves and doesn't see the book he needs, and Stiles keeps talking as if Derek's still waiting at the register.

"What about Cujo? You seem a little wolfy to me, so I dunno, I think Cujo is a good fit."

He peeks around a shelf and he's right, Stiles _is_ in the Horror section with his back to Derek, squatting low in a sickeningly beautiful pair of tight khaki chinos and scratching the nape of his neck while he scans the shelves for a new title.

"Carrie maybe? The movie was a _little_ less scary than I was expecting, so if you've seen it already, you're in luck. The book is way better."

Derek sneaks quietly past into the Personal Health genre and finds the book he wants, a small, devious smirk playing across his lips while he walks back to the front of the bookstore with a treasure in his hands. Stiles meets him right at the counter with a hoard of King novels, ranging from the never-opened copy of It to the falling apart copy of Christine.

"I figured you could pick," Stiles impatiently explains with excited eyes, watching Derek skim the titles slotted along the tabletop.

"Actually," Derek proposes, "I picked my own already." He's once again chosen the oldest copy, and the version in his hands has the poems written in the original Sanskrit next to the English translation. He's nearly positive Stiles hasn't read it either, probably out of embarrassment, but Derek's heart is racing at the thought of maybe exploring it together. He sets the hardcover on top of the stack the boy has provided, the gold shimmering on the cover matching the ribbons in Stiles's eyes.

He Stiles's eyes studies the cover of _Kamasutra_ before they languidly rise to meet Derek's dreamy jade from their firm stance on the other side of the counter. The air is thick with tension, unspoken between them, and Derek's just studying the boy's face—he may be even more stunningly beautiful without his thick frames hiding the whiskey swirling in his eyes, he thinks—and Stiles lets a smirk tug at the corner of his lips. "Five out of five stars_._"

Derek's mind goes silent with the realization that his plan may have backfired until his mouth blurts out, "Any spoilers?"

The floorboards creak from where Stiles is walking around the counter, his fingers tracing lightly along the edge of it without ever taking his gaze away from Derek's. They're inches apart, a warm, ghostly breath finds its way over his cheek where it's escaped quickly from the boy's lips. A wolfish grin spreads across Stiles's beautiful face and there's pure desire glimmering in his eyes, his jaw clenches firmly and Derek feels his mouth go dry from where his gaze is trained on the boy's parted lips. He reaches a hand to his right and fumbles around the glass door to flip the _open_ sign to _closed_, and Stiles watches him struggle with it before he turns around and walks into the shelves. Derek's frozen in time, but his feet blindly follow the soft groaning of the floorboards as they lead to the back of the dimly lit store.

He passes the folklore section and discovers his first piece of shed clothing; Stiles slid out of the blue plaid over shirt when he walked by the stacks and let it hit the floor, like a hint to Derek that he's heading in the right direction. There's a thumping in his ears as he creeps by the fabric, and then a single adidas superstar, and then another, and Derek takes it as a cue to remove his own boots as he moves, until they're kicked off haphazardly into the cookbook shelves. _It's happening,_ he thinks, like he can't believe they've waited so long, like he didn't know Stiles was flirting with him, like he didn't know he could've asked him out on a date two months ago like a normal human being instead of planning a way to literally get _fucked _by the gorgeous guy in the bookstore. He'd be lying if he'd said he _hadn't_ dreamt about it. He reaches the staircase at the back and Stiles is at the bottom in the middle of the open reading area, pushing a hideous floral loveseat to the center of the rug.

"Is this sacrilegious?" asks Stiles, turning to face Derek. His nimble fingers tug at the bottom of his brown tee and hastily yank it over his head to reveal a pale expanse of lean muscle, lightly defined and littered with moles around a patch of hair in the center of his chest and another teasing darkly over the low waistband of his chinos. Derek sucks in a tight-lipped breath and he can't _speak_, so he just shakes his head as he slowly descends the stairs, watching the boy move to the wall to shut the curtains. It's _way_ better than any dream he's had. He mindlessly reaches for his shirt and Stiles throws an arm up to stop him.

"Please," Derek whispers, and his feet lead him right to Stiles's shirtless form. His eyes are dark with desire as they sweep along the older's frame, a shiver tingling over Derek's tanned skin under their scrutiny. The younger brushes a hand over his collarbone and _wow_, Derek's flawlessly remarkable and how did he get _this_ lucky? Blindly, he reaches for the frayed hem of the older's white Henley and drags it up to expose the dips and the ridges of his tight abdomen, saliva pooling on Stiles's tongue at the sight of so much _skin._

Golden light streams through the windows around the border of the nook and it catches on the side of Derek's face, the shadows of his profile playing along the opposite cheek. The sun beam refracts in his green eyes and it nearly steals the breath out of Stiles's heavy lungs, and the sight of the goosebumps prickled across every inch of firm muscle is setting a steady throbbing through the center of his chest, all the way up to his ears. It's deafening, and he swears Derek can hear it. "I would love to say that you make me weak in the knees, but to be quite upfront and completely truthful, you make my body forget that it has knees at all."

Derek wants to laugh, because Stiles starts laughing, but the harsh lines from where the window pane is blocking the sunbeam cut through his honey gaze like butter and Derek can't find his voice. This guy he's been lusting after for nearly two months—but is it _just_ lust? Something about the way his heart is fluttering reminds him that maybe it isn't, the way his hands crave to touch the soft skin inches from his fingertips offers something more. And when Stiles takes the opportunity to gently thumb over Derek's warm cheek, his head tilts right into it. Softly, intimately, and he can't stop _staring_ until Stiles leans forward, capturing his lips in a fervent kiss. "Stiles—" he tries, the whisper has no voice, and it's swallowed into their mouths as they side together.

"You and I," Stiles murmurs against Derek's supple lips, "it's as though we have been taught to kiss in heaven," he's panting, sliding his fingers around to grasp the small of the older's back, "and sent down to earth together, to see if we know what we were taught."

"Are—are you _seriously_ quoting romance novels right now?" There's a record scratch in Derek's head. Stiles pauses from where he's latched onto his throat.

"Wha—I—_no_." A tongue swirls over his jugular in a pitiful attempt at a distraction.

Derek inhales sharply when Stiles bites into the tendons on his neck. "That was Pasternak. Don't lie."

"I _get_ it, I'll be more tasteful next time. Just shut up and let me wreck you, for fuck's sake."

Despite rolling his eyes, it gets his heart racing all over again, and Derek's humming with satisfaction under the tongue soothing hickeys onto his skin. The room is quiet, no buzzing fluorescents or whirring machines, but there's something just as rhythmic and methodical about the labored breathing and rigorous smacking of lips that fills the room with the same white noise. Stiles wastes no time fumbling with Derek's belt before he shoves them apart, so they can each writhe out of their pants, and they're instantly drawn right back together again, hands exploring bodies, mouths exploring mouths.

Stiles lets himself be knocked backward into the wall and Derek's strong frame holds him there. A _whoosh_ of air leaves the younger's lungs and he's sucking in a deep breath full of Derek's earthy cologne, spicy and musky and full of everything that is _Derek_. It's dizzying, the smell of pine and the feeling of his lips dragging over the coarse beard that's growing down Derek's neck and the feeling of his hands desperately gripping into the muscles above the waistband of the soft boxer-briefs hugging Derek's tight ass. Is he drunk? It feels like it. It feels _better_ than being drunk, the same electricity is running through his veins, the same adrenaline, but everything is crystal clear—god forbid he miss out on something as glorious as Derek—and Stiles has to crane his neck up to just get some air back in his goddamn lungs and make sure he's still alive.

"Fucking Christ, Derek, you're like the Venetian Man," Stiles mutters so quietly, it's nearly inaudible, "which we have copies of in the Art section. Frankly, I'm _very_ interested to see how well your body fits into the proportions of the golden ratio."

"Shut _up_, Stiles," comes the response tickling somewhere along the center of his chest. There's a trail of red—_definitely _beard burn—glowing bright from Stiles's sternum to where Derek's slid to his knees to mouth right at the front of his underwear and, _Jesus_, he can't speak anymore even if he tried. Derek's breath is hot and seeping through the fabric, Stiles's knees are quaking at his resistance to let his hips hitch and he thinks he should be embarrassed, but his brain is in overdrive and his body doesn't seem to give two shits about what he's thinking.

Derek's fingers brush up Stiles's trembling thighs and hook under the waistband of his boxer-briefs, but the hand in his hair tugs up and up and up until their mouths are again familiar with one another. He doesn't think it's a feeling he could ever get tired of, sheer euphoria, and he knows it's cliché to feel intoxicated but he is so _so_ intoxicated by it, that if something feels this good then why would he ever come down? Stiles tastes like the pot of blonde roast resting on the burner behind the register, with cream and sugar, like French vanilla and cinnamon and cloves and it's like Christmas, even though Derek's betting Stiles tastes like this year-round. His hand reaches between them and worms its way into the boy's underwear, an obscenely loud moan clawing its way out of Stiles's throat.

"Fuckfuck_fuck._" He's incoherent, seeing stars—the lightheadedness is likely from the oxygen Derek's depriving him of—and his underwear is yanked down, flung somewhere in the vicinity. There're lips working back over his chest and a firm hand gripped around his throbbing cock and Stiles isn't sure which is better at this point, because he's _still_ incoherent, and he's gone from seeing stars to seeing the whole fucking milky way. He wills himself to look down to see where Derek's nipping at inside of his thigh, bottle green eyes gazing up into his with something devious playing behind them.

As if on cue, he stands and strips out of his own underwear, leaving Stiles sweaty and panting watching the way Derek's muscles move and mold underneath his flawless skin. Before he can even say anything, Stiles finds himself craving the feeling of Derek's body and he surges forward to grab his intercostals. His face nuzzles into the scruff along his neck and the older groans softly, fingers reaching up to dig into Stiles's shoulders. "Stiles, please—"

"Up." And his hands are sliding down to roughly grip Derek's ass. "Come on, I go to the gym for a reason," he encourages, and then instinctively, Derek lets Stiles's deceptive frame lift him up and press him against the wall. His legs wrap around the younger's waist and then he catches their lips together to poke his tongue forward gently at the seam of Stiles's perfectly soft simper. There's a pressure in his chest from being crushed into the wood and from the smell of old books that lingers in every breath he gulps in, and Derek makes a whining noise in the back of his throat because _yes,_ his dreams of this moment literally could not compare to the reality he's in.

He can't help from grinding down onto Stiles, and his legs clutch tighter when the boy lifts a hand to his own mouth, coating two fingers in a layer of spit. It's obscene now that Derek can _see_ the way he flicks his tongue around, and it's even more obscene when he leans forward and licks at Derek's lower lip before putting those same fingers in his mouth too. "Coat 'em," he whispers, sucking at the older's chin, "and then I'll show you Kshiraniraka." So, he obeys, swirling those long, elegant fingers around in his mouth with the heat of Stiles's hard cock against his own and the promise of the bliss yet to come.

Stiles can't help but lick his lips because Derek looks flawless like this, wrecked and beautiful and _ruined _and he's just staring through him with those piercing, half-lidded eyes and kiss-swollen lips and Stiles feels like every single nerve in his body is blazing white hot. He grinds back into Derek and hikes him up the wall further, trailing his fingers down to prod at the ass he can't stop grabbing.

"Shit_, fuck_," Derek arches up, one hand threaded and pulling at the hair on the back of the boy's head and the other clawing at the muscles churning under Stiles's shoulders, "keep going, I nee—_ah,_ I need more." One finger slips past the ring of muscle and Derek's teeth nearly go through his lip, he's biting on it so hard. A few low, wispy moans fall out and into Stiles's neck where the scruff is rubbing it raw, tender like the screaming red of his bruised lips.

He slips two more fingers in at once and watches how Derek's eyes clench shut, head thrown back to the wood paneling with the little keening noises spilling out of his mouth. His mussed hair is starting to cling to the sweat that's beading on his brow and wow, that's _hot_, but not as hot as the way his jaw drops open when Stiles stretches him open a bit more. He can feel Derek's thighs starting to shake and takes it as his cue to grip his ass and carry him over to the loveseat.

"If you could see yourself right now," he starts, kissing at the older's jaw hinge, as if he's not glowing himself. Derek isn't sure he'll ever stop being mesmerized by Stiles's eyes and the gold that shimmers in them, now almost gone by how dark with want they are. The sheen of perspiration that's evenly cloaking the boy's body is glinting through the slats in the shut blinds, highlighting the tendons that run up his sinewy forearms, over his biceps where they're working overtime to cradle Derek trembling body. "You're stunning."

He sits, the older still draped around his torso, and it takes a moment and some rearranging before Stiles positions his leaking cock at Derek's entrance and slowly lowers him into his lap. He could be wholly content like this, so _gratified_ in the insatiable mewls spewing from Derek's lips and seeping into his skin, feeding his compulsion to reduce the man to feverish mush in his arms. Stiles feels him already rasping suggestively into his shoulder and with an experimental hip roll forward, the huffing turns into a choked gasp and fingers vehemently grapple for stability on his back.

"Move," Derek groans. His back arches, shoving his body into Stiles's unyielding chest and _ugh,_ his cock aches and his muscles are throbbing under his skin every time the boy abruptly twitches with the control he's slowly losing over his own body. So, Stiles complies with the request, and the air is driven from Derek's lungs when those agile hands tighten their grip around his hips to guide him.

Stiles pushes up into him slowly at first, but he works his way into a hurried rhythm, digging his thumbs so ardently into the meat of Derek's hips that they're reddening with the beginnings of angry bruises. The older writhes, trying so hard to ignore the sting of his sore muscles and focus on the sheer euphoria coursing through his veins as he grinds down into each one of Stiles's harsh thrusts. As much as he wants to say something, he _can't_. His voice is missing, and his throat is dry, and his dick is trapped in the space between their bellies, but the antagonizing pressure is enough to send his brain into delirium.

The only noise comes from where sweat is trickling down between them, and every time Stiles fucks up into Derek, the sound of skin against skin gets louder and it shouldn't be so electrifying, but it only makes Stiles _relish_ the sound and fuels his need to hear it again. Derek's hands lace into his hair and he can feel the stinging of his grating stubble rubbing along the side of his face, hot breaths puffing over his ear so sensually, it's making a furious heat stir in his abdomen.

"Fucking _god,_ Derek," he chokes out, and Stiles reaches his hands underneath the man's thighs to nearly fold him in half and get a better angle. He slots his arms under Derek's knees and grips him by his thighs, and the older cuts off the lewd sob that tries to squirm out of his mouth. He's sweltering with ecstasy and Stiles is hitting that sweet spot with every _single _driving thrust and the burning in his stomach is so consuming with the way it's thrumming over his entire body.

Stiles leans forward to lick and nibble in the morphing crevices of Derek's collarbone, holding back the overwhelming warmth that pools whenever the older clenches his perfect ass around his cock. It isn't long before Derek yanks Stiles's head back to look at his mesmerizing face before he spills over both of their chests, and he's just _breathless _as the younger ruthlessly fucks every last drop out of his frame. He follows soon after with Derek's teeth grazing lightly over his pliant lips, hips buried in the man's ruined form as he hits his release.

They sit there for a while, lazily sliding their mouths together in the back nook of the bookstore until the dull ache of overworked muscles starts to overpower the veil of fervor that's preventing them from peeling away from one another.

When they do, Stiles gently moves Derek to sit him on the loveseat while he finds his discarded underwear to clean them both off, Derek just can't stop fondly staring at Stiles and maybe he's just basking in the bliss of a relentless fucking, but _wow_, he is glowing in the dim streams of sunlight as it sinks below the horizon. "Should we get dressed?" he asks in a gravelly whisper.

Stiles hums in confirmation as he pads back to the couch and dabs at Derek's chest. He gazes back into Derek's mossy green eyes, leaning in to kiss him again. _Ugh,_ that will never get old. "Probably a good idea. I'm technically supposed to be open for another hour and a half."

It takes him a hot minute to gather up their clothes from their various locations across the bookstore—he _did_ luckily remember to put on his pants _before_ walking toward the massive storefront windows—and they take their time re-dressing themselves before navigating their way back to the abandoned book at the checkout counter.

Derek sighs. "You're seriously going back to work?" He glances down at the titles Stiles had pulled from the horror section.

"You're more than welcome to stay and read with me," the boy quips, fingers reaching for the Kamasutra book on the top of the stack. He flips on the incandescent bulb lights that are draped around the perimeter of the store and settles into the cushion of a window seat near the cash register. "Flip the door sign back to open, will you?"

Something about Stiles's smile feels a little mischievous, and Derek finds himself reaching for the hanging sign. "Are you, uh, doing anything after work?" It feels weird asking him on a date after…_well._

Stiles laughs and moves to make some space for Derek to sit in the window with him. There's a twinkle in his whiskey eyes and he waves the book up in the air. "That's what I'm trying to figure out. You gonna help, or are you just gonna stand there?"


End file.
